


Lucidity

by rizcriz



Series: Lucidity [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, post 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 05:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Margo barges into his room on the eve of day ninety, glares at him with a trembling jaw and says, “We’re going to save Quentin Mother Fucking Coldwater from the other god damned side, and you are going to help us.”He blinks owlishly up at her, before the words finally register and he scrambles so he’s sitting upright in his bed, wincing only slightly along the way. “What?” He asks. “How? What?”“I’ve respected your mourning period because I’m a great fucking friend. But Julia and Josh and Penny and I have taken this as far as we can. It’s your turn.”She looks kind of angry, and he’s just. He’s confused.--Or, the one where Eliot finds out everyone's been on a quest while he's been mourning, and that not every God is an asshole.





	Lucidity

The first day of lucidity is plagued by the words: _If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._ The world is all darkness and cool air on his skin. Aching pain radiating from his stomach and out through his limbs, dulled only by the residual meds they’ve doped him up on. He keeps his eyes closed, despite the murmured talking coming at him from all directions of people waiting for him to wake up. He just wants to revel in this. The quiet storm of pain and feeling and realness that comes with the first moment of clarity. But the words echo. Bounce around in his head like he’s suddenly turned into a game of pong, and if he lets them go, he loses.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Perhaps it’s because of that, that he forces himself to open his eyes, not ten minutes after his fingers twitch to life, and the pain shoots down his spine to remind him this is real and he’s alive. Perhaps it’s the hope of placing his hands on the back of Quentin’s neck, and pulling him in close. In the idea of warmth replacing the cool, sterility of the infirmary. Of warmth spreading down his limbs, where fingers lace through his, and legs tangle up in him. It’s enough to give him the strength to blink against the glaring lights in the ceiling.

To clear his throat so they know.

He’s not sure why, but he expects Quentin’s face to be the first to appear. To block out the light and show him this is real. But the hand linking through his is smaller, if familiar in its disparity. And it’s a familiar head of long brown hair leaning over him with watery eyes.

 _If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you_.

He offers up a pained smile, squeezes her hand. “Hey, Bambi.” His voice is hoarse, and rumbles through him. Tears at his insides. “What’d I miss?”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

He manages to twist his neck around when she doesn’t respond, muscles stiff and frustrated, and take a peek at his audience. Julia and Kady are sitting by the window; Julia’s gazing off into the distance; appearance not far off from how she looked all those months back when he went to her asking to help save magic. Kady’s there, she’s watching him, but her hands are wrapped up in Julia’s, thumb mindlessly drawing back and forth. Twenty three is standing beside them, face drawn up, like he’s lost in thought, or swimming around in Eliot’s mind trying to see what he’s thinking. There’s not much. Just the same words.

Over and over.

_If I ever get out of here—_

And over.

It’s when he shifts back around and catches the blare of the light bouncing off Alice’s hair that he realizes something’s wrong. He watches; waits for her to look at him, to stop staring at an inconsequential spot on the bed and to say something. But she doesn’t even blink, barely sways in her seat.

He drags his eyes away from her to look back up at Margo. She’s watching him with the same shuttered look as Kady, and he squeezes her hand again. “I’m okay,” he tries. “I’m not dead.”

“I know.”

He smiles, a little half heartedly as the pain in his stomach amps up, the sleep drug haze fading faster than he can keep up with. “Where’s Q? Getting food from the cafeteria?” Margo’s breath hitches, and she looks away; hair blocking her face from view. “He’s always had terrible timing.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“No,” Twenty three says from his corner. “He’s not in the cafeteria.”

Eliot twists back around to look at him; his arms are crossed, hands tucked up into his arm pits. “Then where is he?”

Penny looks down.

The wrongness of it all is near stifling; sidled up with the pain coursing through his veins. He looks at them all again, each individually, but they refuse to look him in the eye—Alice and Julia still lost in their own thoughts.

It hits him like a boulder.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Crashes into his chest.

“Where is he, then?” He asks, though the answer is clamoring around in his chest, ripping it apart. Breaking the bones protecting his heart. Leaving shards behind. His voice is higher, near manic with desperation.

Kady takes a deep breath, and his attention jerks across the room so he can watch her. Her thumb’s stopped moving in Julia’s hand. “He . . . did something brave.”

Brave.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Alice scoffs from the side of the bed, and he swings his gaze back around to her. Her eyes are locked on Kady. “Brave? You’re joking, right?”

No.

No. No, no, no, no.

“Hi, cripple here,” He waves an arm out between them, groaning as pain shoots up and through his every nerve. “Someone, _and I really don’t care who_ , please tell me what the fuck is going on.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

  
  


Quentin’s dead.

He’s not just dead.

_If I ever get out of here—_

He killed himself.

  
  


The second day of lucidity is cut short when he wakes and presses his thumb down on the morphine drip before anyone can so much as say hello. Sleep comes slow and welcome, because he’s there in his dreams. He’s waiting, hand held out for Eliot, the soft familiar warmth of a smile beaming up at him from beneath his disheveled brown hair. Eliot takes his hand, open and willing, and lets himself be pulled into the past.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

  
  


When he wakes on the fifth day, the morphine buttons been removed, and Margo is sitting at his bedside with a scowl and a magazine. She raises her eyebrows at him, like she expects him to say something. But words are too much for his grief heavy tongue, so he lays back and looks up at the ceiling.

His fingers twitch at his side like they’re waiting for something.

He resists the urge to laugh, because he knows what it is. Knows what was supposed to happen when he finally regained control. There’s a neck, where his fingers fit perfectly in the crook of. Where there’s no resistance, and only the slick feel of silky hair beneath the pads of his fingers. A jaw for his thumbs to cup, and cheekbones for them to clear of tears on dark nights.

_That’s not you, and that’s definitely not me. Not when we have a choice, anyway._

When he closes his eyes, sleep comes easy.

  
  


They discharge him on day seventeen. Offer up an ugly, hospital prescribed cane; as red as the blood that should flow through Quentin’s veins. He throws it out as soon as they get to the penthouse, and curls up on the god awful couch three hours after waking up.

Finally winds his arms around Quentin’s quaking torso not five minutes later.

  
  
  


It’s there, lying offensively up against the side of the couch, when he wakes up just after midnight on day eighteen. He sits and stares at it for a long moment, debates whether or not to pluck a spell from his memories to turn it to dust. But his stomach aches, and his legs struggle to hold his weight, and as ugly as it is, he’s too tired to fight this fight.

  
  
  


On day twenty eight he’s in the kitchen with the ugly red cane leaning up against the crook of the counter when he finds something he’s maybe not meant to have. It’s tucked in the space between the microwave and the wall, wrapped in a purple shirt. He only sees it because he’s thirsty and the only clean cups left are on the top shelf of the cabinet. He’s still not supposed to lift his arms above his head because he’s meant to be healing, but he can’t be bothered by the physical wounds, when there are some deeper that are beyond healing. He catches a glimpse of the purple fabric out of the corner of his eye and abandons the cup, fingertips grazing the enamel of it, before  slowly slipping off the cabinet shelf so he can carefully reach behind the microwave and wrap his fingers around the fabric and whatever it’s hiding.

It’s heavy when he lifts it; almost so much so that the weight of it irritates the muscles in his stomach as he sets it on the counter and examines it. There’s a rubber band holding it all together, and he narrows his eyes as he holds it down with one hand and pulls the rubber band off with the other. The shirt holds firm around it for a beat before slowly slumping away. His breath hitches as he unravels it and a familiar heady book and cedar scent wafts up to him.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Heart racing, he unwinds the shirt and almost without thinking, pulls it up to his face, and inhales.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Something cold and fierce fills his stomach, throat going tight, as his fingers clench in the fabric. Quentin had thrown his clothes in the washer before the quest—so when everyone returned, they were mildewy and irredeemable. He’d almost forgotten what he smelled like.

But now that seems impossible. His eyes sting, and he forces himself to pull the shirt away from himself and set it on the counter. Can’t risk ruining it. Losing it.

He tears his gaze away from the shirt, eyes trailing across the counter, until they land on what the shirt had been concealing. A bottle with a note that looks like it’s been folded and refolded a thousand times. He swallows thickly and carefully tucks his fingers into the buckled fold curling around the side of the bottle. His nails scrape against the paper, and for a moment he’s afraid it’s going to tear along one of the frayed edges, but then the tension gives way and the paper settles into his palm.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

A shiver travels up his spine as he flips the paper over and unfolds it until a familiar scrawl stares up at him. “Do not open,” he reads, voice spilling out soft and curious as he lets go of the note with one hand to trail his fingers over Quentin’s handwriting.

_Whatever’s happening, do not open this bottle. Do not open it even if the monsters made you kill someone else. Do not open even if it feels all hope is lost. Do not open when it hurts to breathe or the fear has swallowed you whole. Don’t open this fucking bottle until Eliot’s back and you can see and feel and hold him. Do not open except in case of celebration. This bottle isn’t to drown the pain._

_Don’t open unless Eliot’s sitting beside you, laughing at you for having a hard time getting it open._

_There’s no giving up. Not now. Don’t open this bottle if you’ve given up hope. If it feels like the worlds eaten you up and spat you back out and like you’ll never be okay again—don’t open the fucking bottle. Eliot needs you. Me. Eliot needs you to fight. You can’t do that if you’re drunk. Or high. Or if you let the depression break you. So don’t open the bottle unless you’re smiling._

_Team Eliot, remember? Don’t open the bottle. Don’t do it. Be strong. It’s hard but you can do it, Quentin of the future. We can do it._

_Do it for Eliot._

_For Eliot._

_For Eliot._

The final two words are written over and over and over again in different ink colors, scattered and messy and smudged. Like Quentin had to remind himself on more than one occasion what he was fighting for. Like he knew he couldn’t give up but that he was tempted. Like there was a fight, and he was determined to win it.

What changed?

Eliot swallows down a lump in his throat and cautiously folds the letter back up and wraps it around the bottle. He hesitates at the shirt, half tempted to take it back to his room and curl up with it so he can pretend Quentin’s there, lying just out of reach. But he picks it up and wraps it back around the bottle, and seals it with the rubber band. If he takes it now, he’ll lose the scent forever.

 _If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you_.

He lifts it back up, tucks it back into its place behind the microwave, and doesn’t realize he hasn’t even looked at the brand of alcohol on the bottle until he’s curled back up in bed, clutching a pillow to his chest.

  
  


It’s day thirty one when Margo wakes him by yanking open the blinds on his window with a, “I’ve had _enough_ ,” The blanket gets yanked off from over him, “of this shit, Eliot!”

He pulls his pillow in closer, burying his face in it. “Don’t know what you mean,” he says into it, voice muffled.

She scoffs. “This!” She’s probably motioning at him with an annoyed grimace. “You reek. You look like shit. Have you even changed the dressings on your bandages?” Of course he has. He tells her as much, though it comes out as barely more than an annoyed sigh and a petulant kick of his foot in her general direction. She huffs and slaps his leg. “Eliot Waugh, you are my best friend, and we both know damn well that my best friend does not act like _this.”_

It’s almost enough to make him look up at her. Almost the right side of ridiculous. Because he’s not acting like anything. The person he loves is dead and he’s in mourning, as is his fucking right.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He just buries himself further into the pillow.

She stands there, looming over him for a few minutes longer, before he hears a small, dejected sigh. The blinds get pulled shut, and his blanket settles back over him. She leans on the edge of the bed, and he feels a soft, wet warmth against the crook of his neck.

“Go to sleep.”

He does.

  
  


He remembers the cane in his dreams on day forty two, and when he wakes up, he heads into the living room, carefully plucks a conjuring book up off the table, and heads back to his room. He’s not sure what quest they’re working on, nor does he care. All he wants is. . .

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

It takes a few tries. His magic’s rusty from underuse, and his heart racing distractingly and impossibly faster with every desperate try.  Frustratingly, his fingers struggle to form the right movement the first few times. He almost gives up after it slowly fades in half formed and mangled on the eighth try.

But eventually, it’s lying there, on the center of his bed. Plucked straight from his sweetest dreams and loneliest memories. He reaches out and carefully strokes one of the horns on the handle, a small, wobbly smile forcing its way onto his lips as he thinks of the grandkids, and of Quentin and the grandkids, of Teddy. Of home.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

  
  


Nobody asks where it came from the next day when he gets a glass of water from the kitchen.

  
  


He wakes on day fifty to a warmth at his back.

For a brief, beautiful moment, he keeps his eyes closed; forgets who he is and where he is, and gets lost in the moment. Lets himself be held. Because if he stays like this, gives into the warmth and refuses to open his eyes, he can keep thinking it’s Quentin, in this sweet, sweet morning bliss of confusion and sleep haze. It’s like he’s still _alive_.

But then there’s a shuffle, and a hand settles on his hip, and it’s Margo’s voice that says, “We’re going out,” softly into his ear. “And no, you don’t have a choice.”

His eyes open, slowly and then all at once, and narrow in on the cane leaned up against the nightstand. Her hand moves up and down his side, in what should be comforting motions, but they just make him queasy. Make him long for what he thought he had.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

He squeezes his eyes shut against the barrage of tears that threaten, and slides across the bed to get away from her. “Not in the mood, Bambi,” He mutters. “Go without me.”

“I told you,” She says, even as he feels the bed shift as she gets up. “You don’t have a choice. You can either get dressed, or I’ll have twenty three take you in your pajamas. _That’s_ your choice.” He hears her pad out of the room, and the door close gently behind her; closing on all possibility of continuing the conversation. Closing on what could have been if she’d just let him live in his dreams forever.

When twenty three enters five minutes later, Eliot still hasn’t moved. His eyes are still locked on the cane, the looping curve of the horns. Lost in a memory. Quentin’s the one that chose it at the market. He’d returned with it, beaming like he was so god damned proud of himself. And they’d argued, because they were old and Eliot was crotchety, and refused to admit he’d aged.

The argument had Quentin sleeping outside.

But the next morning when Eliot’s knees ached, and the cane stared up at him from its place on the counter, he wrapped his hands around the handle, and leaned on it. Allowed it to carry him out to the mosaic. Quentin was too good. Too much. Because the corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Not an ‘oh’ or an ‘I told you so’ to be heard. Instead he wiped his hands off on his thighs, and kneeled forward to set a green tile into the mosaic.

It wasn’t until later, when they sat beneath the stars, comfortably silent and the argument almost completely forgotten, that Eliot looked over and said, “ _Thank you.”_ Quentin’s response was to weave his fingers in through Eliot’s, and to press a soft kiss to his knuckles.

They never did need many words to communicate. Not after thirty years together, at least.

Twenty three sits next to him on the bed. “You sure you don’t want to change?”

“Why should I?” It’s not like there’s anyone left for him to impress. His hearts been stripped away, and everything good that came with it followed it down. Not that there was ever much good to begin with. Most of that came with Quentin. With the life they created together. With the potential of doing it again.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

“We’re going to Brakebills. Figured you don’t want anyone knowing you’re like . . . _this.”_

Eliot finally tears his gaze away from the cane and blinks up at Twenty Three. He wonders if it’d be easier. If, like Kady, he gained another timeline version of the person he lost. If, even knowing they’d never be them again, it’d help to just _see_ Quentin in some form, walking and talking like everything’s okay. Even though _his_ Quentin kil—

“I really, truly, could not give less of a fuck what people know.” He mutters, twisting his neck around, and tucking his hands under his cheek so he can look at the cane again. “Unless it’s a way to undo what he did.”

Sighing, Twenty three stands up, and grabs the cane—a little too uncaringly for Eliot’s tastes—and before Eliot can even say as much, grabs him by the shoulder. He’s barely had a chance to blink before he’s settled on the couch in the physical kids cottage, and the canes set down on the coffee table in front of him. He stares across the negative space. Can’t make himself look around to take in the cottage. Because he knows if he looks up and away from the sanctity the cane provides, he’ll see Quentin everywhere. Sitting in the nook reading, on the jean bag chair studying. Lying on the floor of the dining room helping somebody else study.

He’s _everywhere,_ here. Everywhere in ways Eliot can never actually touch. Ways that don’t warm his heart spectacularly, but rather set it on fire; a bruising simmer of everything he never got to say scattered in the hardwood floors.

He carefully rolls over, and buries his face in the cushions of the couch and closes his eyes.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

  
  


He wakes up twelve hours later and rolls over, momentarily forgetting where he is, and finds Todd standing over him, hand cupping his own chin, with his arms crossed. His eyes are narrowed, like he’d been watching Eliot and trying to figure something out. He squints up at him, too tired, too everything, really, to even summon any distaste for him.

“What do you want, Todd?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just thought you might like a haircut?” He smiles the stupid happy go lucky smile that constantly makes Eliot wonder how he has any magic coursing through his veins at all. “I know a spell. You just have to tell me the style.”

Eliot stares up at him for a moment. “I’m not in the mood,” He finally manages, as his eyes dart behind him, and catch the wall of books lining the side of the room.  And the reading nook tucked away at the end of the shelf. He swallows down a lump. “Actually,” He murmurs, voice impossibly soft as he tears his gaze away to look Todd. He points at the nook with one lazy finger, nodding. “Help me get in there.”

The look on Todd’s face says everything Eliot needs to know.

“I . . .” Todd looks over his shoulder and back. “I don’t think that. That’s a good idea. How about a hair cut instead?”

He’s being babysat.

Eliot sighs, too tired to even argue or yell or react in any way that matters, and just asks, “Who tasked you with this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Who’s making you babysit me, Todd?” Todd’s mouth opens and closes, so Eliot leans back against the cushions and waves an arm flippantly, “Quickly, I don’t have the patience I used to. And let’s not play the lying game. Since we both know you’re a terrible liar.”

His eyes go wide, arms dropping to his sides as his mouth pops open. “I don't . . . know where you got that idea. I’m just trying to be—” He stops as Eliot scowls, and then a guilty little sigh slips out, and his shoulders slump. “Margo.”

“Of course.” Eliot shakes his head and looks down at the table; at the handle of his cane hanging off the edge of it, horns pointed downwards, as if it’d been so heavy it rolled itself over. “She tell you to give me a haircut, too?”

“ . . . Yeah. But I really _do_ know a good spell.”

Eliot looks him over, frowning. “You do your own?”

“Yes, I did!”

He looks so proud of it, Eliot almost feels bad enough to not be mean. But. “Then, you might want to find a better spell.” He’s angry and tired and sick of people watching over him.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

  
  
  


He has his first alcoholic drink since he woke up on the third day in the cottage, and the lucidity drowns itself out in it. And if he were the man he was almost two years ago—the man who looked in Quentin’s eyes and said he’d never choose him—if he were that man, he wouldn’t be sitting here in the nook in the wall, shoulder to shoulder in an equally drunken stupor with _Todd_.

Eliot’s head falls back, bounces off the wall, and his neck rolls to the side to look at Todd as he passes him the flask of vodka. “I’m . . . going to tell you something. But you can’t go snitching to Bambi.”

Todd blinks, wide, glazed eyes bobbing as he nods. “Totally.”

It’s a terrible decision, and he knows it. But it’s been fifty four days. He’s drunk. And the sadness hasn’t lessened by even the smallest degree. He turns away and looks up at the ceiling of the nook, corner of his mouth twitching downward at a stupid little drawing of a tree etched up above his head. He reaches up and traces the edges of it. It’s not even a good doodle. It’s messy and if he didn’t know who’d drawn it, or hadn’t been there when the pen ran out of ink, and handed over his own, he wouldn’t even know what it is. “I miss him.” His nail scrapes against the wood, a surprising comfort that grounds him.

He can still see it, if he closes his eyes. Quentin scrunching up his face in concentration; the angle too awkward for anything to be anything other than sloppy, wavy lines. He’d tried though. And he’d looked so stupidly proud of himself.

Swallowing, he lets his hand fall to his side and turns to look at Todd again.

Todd’s watching him, and for the first time since he met him, he actually looks like a real person with actual human emotions. Even drunk and useless, he’s got this look on his face — nothing quite so easy to describe as his usual brainless dopiness. Mouth set in a thin line, and eyes gone soft. On anyone else he’d think it’s pity. But, somehow, Todd’s pity doesn’t elicit uncontainable irritation and suffering rage. It doesn’t even come across _as_ pity.

“What?”

He shrugs halfheartedly, before bringing the flask to his lips and taking a long swig. He licks his lips when he pulls it away and holds it out to Eliot, shaking it a bit when Eliot doesn't immediately reach for it. When Eliot’s fingers wrap around it, he says, “That’s your right, you know,” and Eliot almost drops the flask in his surprise.

“What’s my right?”

“Missing him.” He looks down at his lap and shrugs again, shoulders rolling against the wall behind him as a wayward curl falls in his face. “I’ve lost people, too. And the world keeps moving, and people expect you to be okay after a while. But it never goes away, and it’s not fair. When people expect you to pretend that he wasn’t _just_ there.” He looks back up, swallowing audibly. “It’s your right to miss him. You shouldn’t have to hide it, or pretend to be okay.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.” Todd reaches for the flask, and Eliot gives it to him freely, but he doesn’t take a drink from it. He just pulls it into his lap, and scrapes his nail harmlessly along the side of it, like he just needs something to do with his hands. “Margo asked me to watch you, and I think it. Comes from some part of her that’s actually desperately worried about you — which is _her_ right, because she almost lost you. But I don’t think. She really sees what you’re going through.” He looks up from the flask, back to Eliot, and motions towards the tree above them with his eyes. “She thinks you’re mourning, but you’re still grieving, man.”

Eliot raises his eyebrows. “Is there a difference?”

“Yeah. Mourning is when you’re ready to bring that pain out into the world, and let other people feel it, and morph it. Make something new out of it.” He shrugs, “Grieving is when it’s so strong, you’re not sure how to let go of even the smallest sliver of it. So it stays tucked up inside your heart. Like a wall protecting you from anything else that could hurt. But it’s not just keeping things out. It’s got all that pain trapped in, too.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

And it must say something about how much Eliot’s had to drink because it almost makes sense.

“It’s like Game of Thrones. But for, like. Real pain.”

It surprises a laugh out of hm; or, at least, the closest he’s come to a real laugh in months. And he turns away to look back up at the tree. He stares at it for a moment, until the laughter putters off into this small puff-puff-sniff sound, and his hands move of their own accord, as tears slip carefully over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s casting a spell, only vaguely familiar from his first year, and clumsily drawn leaves fall from the tree around itself.

“The Daily Prophet spell,” Todd says, a little dazed, as he reaches out and touches the ceiling, barely an inch away from the tree.

“What?” It comes out more watery than he intends.

“That’s uh,” He taps the ceiling, “What I call it. Because it’s like in Harry Potter—”

“You were on such a roll of not saying anything stupid, Todd.”

Todd laughs, and it almost feels okay for a moment, but the spell stutters because he’s let it go unpracticed for too long, and the tree stills, and Eliot feels the loss again and it’s vibrant and—

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He sucks his bottom lip in, clenching his jaw as he stares up at the frozen, ugly tree, and thinks maybe. It’s a good representation of their — not _love,_ because he never even had the chance to give that to Quentin in the world where he drew this fucking tree — whatever they were to each other. Because there’s so much potential. So much fucking potential. But the angle, or time, or circumstance, or the universe, didn’t think the potential deserved to be served.

. . . Except it wasn’t any of those things. It was Quentin.

Quentin killed himself.

He doesn’t realize he’s casting until he hears the panicked, “Hey, hey, no! Eliot—” And then Todd’s grabbing his hand and shaking his head at him. “Don’t do that,” He says, wide eyed and worried, because this is apparently who Todd is. “Don’t burn it. Trust me. Don’t burn the things you can’t replace.” He feels small when he looks down at their hands; his fingers clenched together like they were every time anything’s ever gone wrong in his life. Set it on fire and move on.

But that’s not who he is anymore. Mostly because he doesn’t really know who that is. Because Quentin . . . Quentin smothered that part of him with his kindness and his love and their family and—

His gaze darts up to Todd’s, watery and dissonant. “I just don’t understand,” He says, the words choked off and hesitant, like they’ve been buried deep in him, waiting for someone to dig them up. But nobody's really tried, not _actually_. Nobodies asked if he’s okay, and he shouldn’t be surprised because nobody asked Quentin either. “We didn’t even have a funeral.”

Todd watches him for a long moment before he nods. “Okay,” He says, “That’s a good place to start. We can do that.”

“What?” Eliot shakes his head, swallowing down the tears and snot building up, “No — no we can’t.” There isn’t even a body. And it’s been months. And he can think of a thousand and five reasons why it’s not possible.

“Why, because there’s no body?” Todd rolls his eyes, and leans away. “I got this, Eliot. You deserve a chance to say goodbye.”

He nods despite the sinking feeling that no, no he doesn’t because Quentin’s not the only one that smothered this. His was just less _permanent._ “Okay,” He says, looking down at his lap. “Okay.”

  
  


Todd approaches him the next day, when Eliot’s hungover and lying on the couch with an arm thrown over his face. He must sense the comradery of lucidity to liquidity has faded, because he’s careful when he sits down on the coffee table and says, “What’s something that represents Quentin?” When Eliot just shrugs without pulling his arm away, he adds, “Something simple. That you can burn.”

Eliot’s arm falls away and he blinks blearily up at him. “What?”

“Something that makes you think of Quentin, but that you can handle burning. That you won’t regret—”

He doesn’t even need to think about it.

Because the smell lingers everywhere. Fills him up with everything they could have been. He brings his arm back up and drapes it over his eyes, only hesitates a moment, before saying, “Peaches.”

Todd’s silent for a beat. “Okay,” He says, the word weighed down by something that Eliot’s too tired to quantify. “Peaches. Got it.”

  
  


Day fifty nine of terrifying lucidity ends with a peach set on the table; big and plump and pink and everything he can’t really make sense of bubbling in his gut when he looks up at Todd who’s standing there above it with his hands anxiously tucked in his pockets. “Don’t eat it,” He says, “It’s for tomorrow.”

Eliot’s lower lip trembles, and he doesn’t know how to say it, but  that’s his life anyways. Words he never gets to or knows how to say, but Todd just nods, like he knows what he’s thinking, and turns on his heel to leave.

The words manage to come a few minutes later, when Eliot’s all alone, staring down at the peach. They’re small and broken, and so fucking full of something, everything, and he’s surprised by them. “Thank you.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

And like every other important thing he’s ever had to say, the only ones to hear them are the demons lurking in his head.

He curls back up in the couch, and goes back to sleep.

  
  


Margo wakes him on day sixty with a careful hand tucked into his armpit, and a small, almost too gentle to be rightly placed on her face, smile. She helps him out to the backyard, where there’s a fire burning hot and bright — and he can’t help but wonder who’s going to snuff this one out. The blossom of happiness and a future together with Quentin was Eliot’s to snuff out. The potential for more taken by Quentin. Who’s going to be the one that finally finishes Quentin’s story for good?

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

It’s a battle cry in his heart as he throws the peach into the fire. Echoing in and through itself with every beat. _If I ever get out of here, if I ever get out of here, if I ever get out of here._

The smell of burnt peaches wafts around the clearing, overpowers the sizzling wood. And he closes his eyes, falls back into the past, in a memory of peach cobbler and sticky toddler hands and thoughtless laughter and—

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

  
  


He returns to the clearing just after two in the morning with Todd’s help. Can’t bare to ask Margo, who still, even after all this time — _especially_ after all this time — can’t understand. Too happy in her love bubble to even try to get it. Which he gets. She deserves her happiness. She deserves to smile when she wakes up, to feel someone’s hands sure and warm on her arms when she’s cold or worried. To feel centered. He remembers that feeling, from before.

He wants that for her.

Even if it hurts to see her smiling when he’s aching. Hurts to see her so unaware.

Todd helps him sit on the log and stands awkwardly, gazing down at the cold fire pit.

“Sit,” Eliot manages, voice hoarse. “Todd, you can sit.”

“Are you sure?” He nods, and Todd swallows before sitting down next to him, his hands coming to rest on the log on either side of himself. Eliot can hear the anxious scratching of his nails against the wood.

“Who’d you lose?” He manages not much later, when Todd’s finally settled, his hands pulled into his lap, and gaze lost in the vestiges of the fire. He doesn’t know why he cares; has never cared about Todd or his life before. But the words get pulled from his chest easier than anything else he could try to say.

Todd clears his throat, like he’s surprised by the question, and his hands come back down to the log, fingers digging in as he picks noisily at it. “Her, uh. Name was Celia.” He looks down at his lap, biting on his lip. “We were neighbors since before we were born. And we, well. We were best friends before anything. There was never a _before_ Celia. I don’t even think there was a day that went by that I didn’t love her,” His voice chokes off, and he shakes his head, “Sorry, I—”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s _good_ to talk about it.” He nods, mostly to himself, like he’s trying to level his head out, and looks at Eliot with a little watery smile and furrowed brow. “It’s just not always easy. But the good things never are, I guess.” He waves a hand flippantly, and Eliot can’t help but wonder how dumb, relentlessly stupid Todd can be so—

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Anyways. She loved me first, that’s what she always said, at least. She was — god, she was such a Topanga. Did you ever watch Boy Meets World? Because she was basically Topanga. She used to joke about how she was going to march up to the producers and demand compensation for stealing her entire personality.” He smiles to himself. “She was the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“High praise,” Eliot murmurs. “Coming from you.”

Laughing, Todd nods. “Right? But, yeah. Childhood sweethearts. We were each others first, well. Everything. Started dating when we were sixteen because I was an idiot, and I couldn’t have known that we wouldn’t have forever. And. We were together until the day before I came to Brakebills.” He stops and looks down at the ground in front of his feet.

“How did she . . . ?”

“She had an aneurysm.” He glances up at Eliot from behind his hair; it’s dark out but Eliot can still see the tears. “It’s not something anyone can detect until it’s too late. We were celebrating her twenty second birthday. She was older than me, and I’d just — I’d just told her,” He breaks off and looks away so he can lean forward and press his elbows into his thigh as his hands rub across his face. “I’d just told her. That all that meant was that she’d — that I’d. Live longer than her.”

“Fuck.”

There’s humorless laugh, and a meaningful, “Yeah.” He exhales shakily, and continues. “We were laughing when it happened. I still remember it. Clear as fucking day. Something disappeared. Behind her eyes. And her laugh just— it stopped. Mid laugh. And from there it was like, the world moved in slow motion, because I managed to reach out and catch her before she fell. And it took a moment. Before I realized, you know?”

Eliot thinks back on the first day, after he woke up. The slow, dawning realization.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Yeah. He knows.

“But then I did. And everyone else in the park fell around me.” He bites down on his lip before shaking his head and sitting back upright. “I didn’t even realize what I did. I was just screaming for help.”

“What did you do?”

Todd freezes. And then. “I killed people. I didn’t mean to. But apparently I’m Psychokinetic. I basically fried the brains of eight people with my emotions without even realizing it.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Dean Fogg was. Ecstatic when I met him.” He kind of smiles to himself. “I punched him.”

“You did not.”

“I did. He said I have a gift and it’s spectacular and blah blah blah. I didn’t care about any of that, you know? My best friend died less than twenty four hours before and I just. I wanted to curl up and cry and stop feeling, and this complete stranger was just. Standing there grinning at me like I was the fucking golden goose.”

“So you punched him.”

“So I punched him.”

Eliot shakes his head, lifeless chuckle falling. “I never would have called that.”

Todd bumps his shoulder with his own. “That’s because I cast a spell my first week here that inhibited my emotions. I couldn’t really deal. With any of it. So I, essentially, turned it all off. I’m not really able to feel more than a baseline.” Eliot’s tempted to ask for the spell, but Todd looks at him, pointing, “Don’t. Trust me. It takes a lot of the bad. But with it, you lose what made it special.”

“You look like you realize it was special.”

“I have the memories. But I’m not.” He shrugs, shoving up from the log and flipping around to look at him. “Just. I know you don’t like me or trust me or anything. Just believe me, as someone who’s lost somebody he loves, and knows that pain. It hurts more not to feel it, than to let it run its course.”

Run its course.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He doesn’t think it’ll ever run its course. Unless the course leads him, somehow, back to Quentin so he can yell at him for leaving him. For not saying goodbye. For taking the only good that Eliot’s ever had in his heart and—

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“I think I’m ready to head back in.”

“Eliot—”

“I’m not,” He waves a hand and wraps the other around the handle of his cane, thumb settling between the horns, “Mad at you. I just,” He sighs, deep, and looks at Todd helplessly. “I’m tired.” Of talking about the pain. Of avoiding the word he needs to throw into the fire. Of.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

  
  


Alice visits on day seventy one. She’s as put together as ever, eyes softer than he thinks he’s ever seen them. She sits across from him in the living room. It’s a content quiet that he hasn’t felt since before the key quest. Maybe even ever.

Eventually, she heaves a breath and says, “You loved him.” And it’s like she’s letting go of something she’s held deep in her for as long as he’s held it in him, and all he can do is nod, jaw clenching as he fights back tears. He should be dried out by now, with the frequency and ease at which they come. She reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing. “It’s okay. He loved you, too.”

“And you.” He says after a moment, leaning and wrapping his free hand around both of theirs. “He did, Alice.”

“I know,” She says, short and to the point, rolling her lips as she reaches up to adjust her glasses. “But never quite the way he loved you. And that’s okay.”

“It is?”

She nods. “We . . . got back together in the end. But I think we were both using each other. Going through the motions.” Swallowing, she blinks up at him from behind her glasses and offers a close lipped smile. “We understood each other. And we needed that. I . . . I just wish it’d been enough.”

He watches her, examining. She really does look better, if not, a little tired. He’s not really sure what she’s been doing with her life since they went their separate ways, barely even knows what’s happening with Julia and Margo and they’re always around, puttering about the apartment working on their quest — whatever it is. “Do you think we could be friends?” He asks. He doesn’t even know where the words come from, they just bubble up and out of him of their own volition.

And he’s kind of happy they do.

She smiles, nodding.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“I’d like that.”

  
  


Lucidity wavers on day eighty, when he heads into the kitchen, and pulls the bottle and shirt from behind the microwave. He unravels the shirt from around the bottle, and brings it up to his face. It’s the first time since he first found it that he’s allowed himself to pull it out of its hiding place. His eyes slide shut, and he inhales, one big breath, and holds it. Lets Quentin’s scent engulf him whole.

And then he rereads the letter.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He runs his finger along the edges of the note, tracing the creases and curious stains in the pigmenting of it. The smudges in the ink that he’s too afraid to guess were caused by Quentin’s tears.

_“I miss you.”_

When he puts it back together, the shirt stays in his hand, the rubber band carefully winding around the note and the bottle as he tucks it back in its place behind the microwave. He holds the shirt to his chest, and turns to head back to his room, where he curls up in the bed and gets drunk on Quentin’s scent and memories of the past.

  
  


Margo barges into his room on the eve of day ninety, glares at him with a trembling jaw and says, “We’re going to save Quentin Mother Fucking Coldwater from the other god damned side, and you are _going_ to help us.”

He blinks owlishly up at her, before the words finally register and he scrambles so he’s sitting upright in his bed, wincing only slightly along the way. “ _What?_ ” He asks. “How? What?”

“I’ve respected your mourning period, because I’m a great fucking friend. But Julia and Josh and Penny and I have taken this as far as we can. It’s your turn.”

She looks kind of angry, and he’s just. He’s confused.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He grabs onto the cane and uses it to lift himself up off the bed, and leans heavily into as he stares at her wide eyed. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He asks, slowly closing the distance between them. “Bambi— what. I thought— Alice said—”

“Alice may be running the library and have unlimited access to the poison room,” She rolls her eyes like it’s somehow unimpressive, “But she doesn’t have the god connections that previous Public Enemy Number One Julia Wicker has.”

“Previous . . . What?”

She waves a hand and moves around to wrap an arm around his waist to help him. “I’m doing a forgiveness tour. It’s part of the quest that you’ve neglected until now.” She looks up at him as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, and her eyes go soft. “Speaking of which. I owe you, like, twenty apologies. Which we’ll discuss after you find out what we’ve gotta do.”

“Which is?”

“Well,” Her eyes narrow mischievously. And he knows he’s in danger, because he hasn’t been in the right mindset for her mischievousness since before the monster took over his body. Using a gun to try and kill the monster notwithstanding. “You’re gonna have to seduce a baby.”

He freezes.

_When I get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

_“_ What the fuck?”

  
  


Julia never met any of the old gods as her brief stint as a goddess. But she’d been linked to their children, apparently. Like there’s a god network out there syncing them all up. In case anything goes down they can find their way to one another with ease. Which would have been nice if they’d included that little feature in humanity. Maybe if they had, someone would have been able to stop Quentin.

He shakes his head, tries to clear the thoughts out.

“As it turns out, Cupid is real.”

“The baby with a bow and arrow that shits in diapers and shoots unsuspecting bystanders is a God?” He frowns, stretching his leg out in front of him, and resting the cane up against the couch so the horns are facing him. “Scratch that,” He mutters. “God’s not caring about humans. Nothing new there.”  

Julia bites into her sandwich, shaking her head, “No,” She says before she chews and swallows. “That’s not new, but that’s also not exactly what he is.” She reaches out with her hand not holding the sandwich and flips a book around so it’s facing him. “Nobody knows what he really looks like,” He resists the urge to roll his eyes, because when _isn’t_ that the case? “But he’s the son of Aphrodite and Ares. Made up of the affairs and shit between the gods.”

Margo leans in. “He’s basically the godfather of love.”

“And we found him.”

Julia twists around to frown at Penny. “No,” She says, looking back at Eliot. “Not exactly. We found where he spends his time. We don’t know who he is. He’s said to be beautiful and kind. And the,” She pauses, eyes darting over to Margo. “Well.”

“The protector of homosexual love between men,” Margo supplies, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “We think we’ve got a pretty good case for a petition.” Eliot looks over at her, mouth falling open, and she nods, smirking. “Honey, we’ve been doing a whole lot of shit for the past three months trying to get Quentin back. Don’t look so surprised.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Because you had to heal.” She leans in, hand cupping his jaw as she brushes his hair behind his ear. “And I’d hoped you’d let Todd give you a haircut. But, befriending him is fine, too, I guess.”

And, okay, yes, there are days he finds ease in the silence with Todd sitting across from him. But. “I didn’t _befriend—”_

“Shh,” She taps the tip of his nose with her thumb and look over at Julia. “How do we trap the god if we don’t know what he looks like?”

Penny moves from his place by the window and says, “It’s not about trapping him, I think.” He grabs one of the books off the coffee table and holds it out to Margo, flipped to a page about three quarters of the way through. “He’s attracted? I don’t think that’s the right word, but whatever. To the pain of lost love. If we get you,” His eyes dart down to look at Eliot meaningfully, “in the same room with him, then I don’t doubt he’ll come straight to you.”

Eliot’s heart pangs in his chest, and he nods, turning away from the book to look down at the handle of his cane. “What if it doesn’t work?” He asks, soft, after a moment. “What if we do all of this and get our hopes up, and,” He looks back up at Julia. “And we can’t get him back?”

She sets her sandwich down and finishes chewing, slow like she’s trying to find the right words while she does. And then she dusts her hands off, and leans against the side of the table, leveling him with a  stare that she’d probably gained during her brief stint as a goddess. “Failure isn’t an option,” She says. “We failed him once. We won’t do that again.”

“We wouldn’t bring you in if it was false hope,” Margo adds from beside him.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it's because of you._

  
  


Lucidity ebbs and flows between the pounding beat of music and the flashing of strobe lights overhead. They’ve been at it for weeks, now. Eliot’s lost track of the days, but feels them weigh down on every his every interaction. He leaves the crowd and heads for the bar, desperate for an escape from the building heat and sweltering smell of sweat and lust. It’s the third bar of the night, because apparently Eros likes to party with the mundane. He slips onto a stool at the side of the bar, and rests his head in his hands as he sets the cane down and leans it up against the wood paneling.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

It’s become a mantra of hope. Even as the despair works its way back in between the words.

They’ve been all over the world, and if they’d made literally any progress he’d be fucking ecstatic to be in Paris. He and Quentin had talked about it on one of the countless nights back in Fillory; places they wanted to visit when the quest was over; long before they knew they’d never actually leave the mosaic. Places they thought they could be happy, if only for a moment. Quentin’s eyes had gone all glassy when he said, “ _Paris_ .” And then he’d leaned in and pressed a simple, barely there kiss to Eliot’s lips, and added, “ _with you_.”

And Eliot had leaned into the kiss, followed him when he pulled away, and laughed. “ _You make my ‘in my bed in New York’ sound stupid._ ”

“ _Just say you want me there with you,_ ” Quentin had quipped. “ _And it won’t sound so stupid._ ”

“Well _that_ is a beautiful display of craftsmanship,” A voice says to his left, shattering the memory.

He doesn’t bother looking up, gaze locked on the bartop, desperately hoping whoever this is, that thinks it’s a good idea to talk to him, will go away. He doesn’t want anything to do with anyone in this fucking bar. Not unless they’ve got a key to wherever Quentin’s soul is locked away. The music’s too loud, and the world is too much. He just wants to drown in it and curl up in bed and give up. “Thanks,” He says, when the man doesn’t move, rather choosing to stand there beside him, expectantly.

The man makes a noise at the back of throat and takes the seat next to him, waving a hand for the bartender. “Let me get you a drink.”

“No.”

He laughs, it’s barely more than a small chuckle. “Perhaps I should introduce myself first, yes?”

 _“No.”_ Eliot’s hands form fists in his hair. “I’m not interested.” He looks up, angriest scowl he can muster up; but the words that are meant to follow get stuck in his throat. The man is beautiful. And if Eliot weren’t who he is today. If this were two, three years ago, he’d have jumped at the chance to do whatever the man would let him. But he’s not that man anymore. Today his mind barely even lets the idea form before it’s getting shoved down, and the words force themselves out. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

The mans lips quirk upwards, and he leans in, nodding as the bartender starts on a drink without either of them ever having to say anything. “All the noise, and all the people,” He says, turning his bright eyes back on Eliot, “All the world. And I could sense you the moment you walked through the door.” He looks over his shoulder. “And your friends, of course.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Eliot's eyebrows furrow in frustration. “Look, I don’t know what you—”

“Your pain radiates around you like an aura,” The man interrupts. “I’ve sensed it the past few days. Like a prayer following me.” He smiles, and reaches out, brushing his index finger along Eliot’s cheekbone. “I don’t get many prayers.” He blinks, and must realize that it’s only starting to dawn, and sits up straight. “My apologies. Hello. I am Eros. Your kind just call me Cupid. Though, I do have . . . _opinions_ on that particular moniker.”

Eliot’s breath hitches, and he nearly falls off the stool, but Eros— fucking _Eros_ , who he’s been searching for for weeks, who of course appears out of nowhere— reaches out and catches him by the shoulder.

“You’ve been looking for me,” He says when Eliot’s settled back into the stool, and the bartenders set two drinks in front of them. “You think I can help ease your pain.” Turning, he picks up the drink in front of himself and takes a sip.

“Can’t you?” Eliot asks. And for a moment, he thinks he needs to repeat the question, because it came out as barely more than a whisper, and there’s no way Eros heard him over the pulse of the music, but Eros nods at him, lips quirking again.

“I will say,” He murmurs, swallowing his drink and leaning in so Eliot can hear him. “That not many go down this avenue. Mostly because my family does not have a history of making this easy.” He tilts his head, “Tell me why not make a bargain with Hades? Or pick a fight with one of my many cousins? What brought you and your friends to _me?_ ”

Eliot thinks on it for a beat, because he doesn’t actually know why. Margo and Julia and Twenty three are behind this particular decision. All he is, is the hook to catch the proverbial fish. The one that pulls the gods in and begs and pleads and offers up whatever they ask in order to get what he needs. Who he needs.

So he says the only thing he can think to. “You answered the prayer.”

“Not yet, I haven’t.”

He licks his lips and reaches for the drink. “But you’re going to.”

“You’re so certain,” Eros muses. “Humans usually are. But you _are_ face to face with as close to an old god as someone like you is going to get, and you have yet to back down.” He lifts the drink and holds it up in the air in a toasting motion. “That does garner respect, I will admit.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Tell me his name.” He brings the glass to his lips and downs the rest of his drink, before carefully setting it on the counter and looking at Eliot again. “The one you’ve lost.”

He’s not sure why but, Quentin’s name dies on Eliot’s tongue as he looks up at Eros helplessly. Maybe it’s the fear of Eros saying no, or the terror in the thought of it being too late. Or . . . perhaps. It’s the idea of saying Quentin’s name out loud. Because it’s in this moment, with it settled on his tongue, and a god staring him down, that he realizes he hasn’t said his name since that first day in the hospital. He’s thought it. Referred to him in metaphors and imagery and danced with him in his memories.

But he’s yet to _say_ his name.

“Ah,” Eros breathes, leaning back, like he’s realizing something new. “Your pain runs deeper than I could have guessed.” His eyebrows go up, “Which, is to say, I think. I know your pain. In a manner of familiarity that might surprise you.”

“I read the myths.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Pursing his lips, Eros turns to look at his empty glass on the table.  “Stories of old are often called myths for a reason. . .” He pauses, furrowing his brow, and flicking his gaze back up to look at Eliot curiously. “You never did tell me your name. Quite rude, when you’ve come to ask a favor of me.”

“Eliot Waugh.”

Eros tilts his head to the side and examines him for a moment before nodding. “It’s fitting,” He murmurs, reaching up and waving the bartender down without looking away. “The beauty of a fitting name has been lost on humanity in the last few centuries, but,” He turns to smile at the bartender as a new glass is set in front of him, and wraps his fingers around the lip of it. He raises it at Eliot. “Good on your parents.”

“It’s the only good thing they ever did.”

Eyebrows going high, Eros swallows down the drink in one gulp and nods, pointing his index finger from its place on the glass. “Oh god,” He says, laughing around the alcohol, “We all have terrible parents. Cheers to that.”

“Don’t . . . take this the wrong way,” Eliot starts, carefully pushing his own glass away from himself and sitting up straight. “But I’d like to skip the rest of the chit chat and find out how I get him back.” He rests his elbow on the edge of the counter, and laces his fingers together, dangling off the edge of it. “Not that I don’t enjoy the company. But I’m kind of drowning in all the noise and everything—”

Eros snaps a finger and the rest of the club falls away.

“Better?” he asks.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Heart pounding frantically in his chest, Eliot jumps down from the stool, momentarily forgetting the current state of his body as he spins, legs buckling beneath him, as he tries to find the others. They’re nowhere to be seen, as the bustling life of the nightclubs been replaced with a boring, empty, grey room. Before he can completely fall to the ground, a chair appears beneath him, and Eros is sitting in front of him again. “How did you get hurt?”

Eliot’s jaw clicks as he looks at the ground between them. He can’t decide if he should try and make a run for it, find his friends and a new avenue, or just play along.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He clenches his fists in his lap and wills his heart to calm down as he answers the question. “The most dangerous monster in all of creation possessed me.” He motions down at himself. “This is the cost of getting it out of me.”

“So you’re part of the group that broke into Blackspire.”

Eyes going wide, he jerks his gaze back up to look at him. “You— wait.” He shakes his head and shrinks in on himself. “Of course you do.”

Eros’ lips tick upward, and he scoots to the edge of his own seat. “Did your love die getting it out of you?”

“No.” The response is immediate, because as much as he loves Quentin, and as desperate as he is to get him back, he can’t lie. Can’t pretend what Quentin did was anything other than—

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver, it’s because of you._

“Then how did he die?”

Eliot’s lower lip trembles, and he looks up to the dull, grey ceiling of the room Eros’ transported them to, tries to cull the tears before they start flowing. All these months and they still come easy. “He killed himself,” He manages after a moment, sucking his lip into his mouth and jerking his eyes down to look at Eros. “If you ask him, he’ll say it was a sacrifice. But, I’ve heard first hand accounts. And, no.”

Eros watches him, appraising, for a moment. “And, please don’t take this the wrong way. But how can you be certain, that if you were to retrieve him, he wouldn’t just opt to end himself once more?”

“There were extenuating circumstances.”

Clicking his tongue, Eros leans back in his chair and nods. “Of course. Aren’t there always?” He brushes a hand through his hair and sets his drink down as a small table appears next to him. “A favor such as this, Eliot, can’t be given so freely. There are millions of young mortals out there who have lost the ones they love. And in many of those cases, the loss wasn’t a choice.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Eliot stares him down, nausea and rage boiling down in the pit of his stomach. Choice? “It wasn’t a _choice,_ ” He manages, the words all but a hiss. “He didn’t choose to have depression. He didn’t choose for me to shoot the monster last year, or for it to possess me. He didn’t choose for it to seek him out and make him his plaything. He didn’t choose for nobody to ask him if he was okay.” He points a shaking finger, “He didn’t _choose_ to feel unloved and that all his role was, after everything we’ve all been through together, was to be a savior. None of that was his fucking _choice._ ”

“But it was his choice to end his life.”

_“No.”_

Eros looks at him thoughtfully, before leaning forward in his chair and settling his elbows on his knees. “When my love betrayed me,” He says, curling his lips, “I let her go. I _left_ her,” He pauses, like he’s contemplating how to say what comes next. “Why did your love leave you?”

Eliot sits up straight. “What?”

“What betrayal did you commit?”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you.o_

He sets his jaw and looks away. He’s tempted to ask which time, because at this point his life's been nothing more than a series of betrayals. But he knows what it is. What words hurt him the most. What moment, after a lifetime together, Quentin regarded as the one that hurt him the most. The words are just as haunting, deep down and flowing through his dreams. “We lived a lifetime together.”

“Part of the quest for the keys, yes, I am aware.”

“And afterwards, when we came back and remembered. He told me he wanted to do it again.” He swallows thickly, and looks down at his lap, biting down on his lower lip almost hard enough to break skin. “I told him it wasn’t a choice, then. And that, had it been. We wouldn’t have chosen each other. Not in the past, and certainly not then.”

“I see.” Eliot looks up at him, feels the stinging in his abdomen that after all this time can no longer be attributed to the scar left behind by the axe. “You were afraid?” He nods, once, a jerky movement, and Eros stands up. “Are you still afraid?”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“No.”

Eros nods, moving around to stand behind him. Eliot doesn’t follow him, just sits there, staring at the empty chair in front of him. When Eros’ hands settle on the cushion of the chair on either side of Eliot’s head, and leans down, he realizes what this is. “Do you mind if I check?” His breath comes soft, up against the shell of Eliot’s ear.

He knows he loves Quentin. And he knows he won’t squander his time if he gets him back. Not if. Wehn.

If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when i’m braver it’s because of you.

“Be my guest.”

“It _will_ hurt.”

Eliot laughs, a broken little tune. “Not like this.” He pauses, glancing down. “Nothing will hurt this much.”

“We’ll see.”

One of Eros’ hands come up, and Eliot barely has a chance to see the room shimmer and fade away, before the chair and everything else around them falls away. He feels himself floating through nothingness, everything and nothing all at once, eyes falling shut of their own accord. And it’s like peace is slamming into his chest. Forcing anything else out. His limbs drift to his side, like he’s floating on the ocean, at ease with the world and the universe and everything else in and beyond.

A voice, disembodied and not unkind weaves in through the piece. “Take me to him,” It says, “To the first moment.”

And it’s like his mind is no longer his own, because his eyes drift closed, and the next thing he knows, he’s staring down a field of grassy green, and a shaggy haired brunette, is gawking up at him from hundreds of feet away. Even from this far away, Eliot feels distaste settle in his spine as the burn of nicotine flows down his lungs and back up. He’s still floating; only partially in the memory.

But it speeds and slows and Quentin’s standing there, staring up at him, awestruck and speechless, and a little pang of hope fills his lungs with the nicotine and tobacco, that he quickly squashes down and replaces with disdain.

He seeks the words that have come easy the past few months, urges them forward to fill the space, but they don’t come.

“You don’t get to ease the pain,” Eros’ voice calls from somewhere far away. “You don’t get to run away.” There’s  silence as his past plays before then, and the ache settles in, fills up the spaces between the curiosity and discontent. “It was there, in the beginning,” Eros says, almost in awe, the words drifting effortlessly around the memory. “You tried to crush it before it could form.”

The memory fades and he feels as if he’s being dragged through time and space, drifting through the water as it shifts and rushes all around him. And then Todd’s standing there, wide eyed and frantic, and Eliot remembers this moment, as the fear and shock races through his veins. Remembers the terror. The idea of something so new and beautiful and achingly not his—

He cries out, tries to urge the moment away, but a warmth on the back of his neck forces him to still.

“Is this the moment?” Eros asks, “When you knew you couldn’t push it away?”

The memory has him grabbing Margo and dragging her out of the Physical Kids Cottage and across campus, desperate to catch Quentin before he leaves. Desperate for reasons he can’t even begin to comprehend, even now, looking down on himself, to make sure he’s okay. Todd’s words are loud and slow the memory. Filling the silence with the coursing panic behind them.

“It’s strong,” Eros notes, voice soft as Eliot’s body races up the steps, arms outstretched for Quentin, “If i didn’t know better, I’d think this was my doing.”

 _It’s not,_ Eliot wants to yell. It’s _his_ and _Quentin’s_ and _years of agony._ Not the work of a fucking bow and arrow. But Eros’ thumb strokes the skin at the base of his neck, hushing him, as the fear dredges itself away and leaves behind confusing emptiness, while Eliot and Margo of the past pull Quentin and Alice down the stairs and to the cottage.

And the universe shifts all around him again.

And Quentin’s lying on the couch in the cottage, unconscious. Eliot’s heart clenches, both then and now, and a deep panic work its way up his spine. He remembers this day, vivid and broken and gaping.

“A particularly cruel trick,” Eros murmurs. “To trap one in their worst nightmare.” Something adjusts, and he’s staring down at Quentin, full of hope and relief and shoving it all down because it’s too much, too much, and he’s patting his head because what else can he do? “His was to lose himself to his own mind. And yours . . . was to lose him.” He pauses, lets the world charge with fire and electricity, shocking through Eliot’s veins in ways he can’t even escape. Agony seeped in hope. “Show me when you realized that you loved him.”

The feeling swarms up around him in sickening familiarity before Eliot can even think of when. It’s like a shield on his heart, as it circles around everything else; protecting and destroying all at once.

The him of the past buries it in six glasses of scotch.

“Running is a habit, not something new, then.”

His stomach clenches as the memory continues, as Quentin and Margo climb into his bed. As he wakes up, and stares at them wide eyed and longing. As Quentin, drunk and fueled by everything he swallowed down, climbs into his lap and pulls him up to press their lips together.

He can’t bear this memory.  

Or bury it deep enough, it seems.

The hope in it treks up his spine and through his heart. Scatters like shards of glasses through his veins as he pulls Quentin in closer. As Margo moves aside, lets Eliot lives in the moment. Let’s himself touch and feel and kiss and taste. It’s all give and take and push and pull and Quentin leaning up and pulling his shirt off. And Eliot, high on something other than something found in his bedside drawer, for once, feels it clamor around inside him. Rising up, up, up through the misery and the fear and the aching need to run—

It dances in the air between them as Quentin cups Eliot’s jaw, and Eliot’s hands find their home behind his neck.

The gentle hand at the back of Eliot’s neck twitches. The memory moves, twisting and morphing to the next morning. To screaming and crying and clutching a pillow in his lap as he watches it all happen outside the door. Margo’s hand, calm and careful, settling on his shoulder, as he leans over and reaches into the nightstand to grab a pack of cigarettes, and wordlessly lights one.

Eros counts the cigarettes. Each one Eliot finishes.

“Sixteen before the day is done,” Eros murmurs as the memory fades away and Eliot’s left in darkness. “Your story is steeped in tragedy. From the beginning, and even now, at the very end.” The hand shifts until it’s settling over his shoulder, thumb up against the crook of his neck. “Eliot. Many mortals live their entire lives without an ounce of the pain you have felt with your Quentin.”

And?

It doesn’t matter how much it hurts him. How many times he’s had his heart broken since Fogg handed him the card with Quentin’s name on it. How many times he’s broken Quentin’s heart. None of it matters, because it pales in comparison to—

“And with only a fraction of the time you’ve spent together.”

Eliot’s eyes slide shut, and he tries to force the narrative. Direct where they go, and Eros must sense that, because there’s a tug on it, and he feel’s free, like he’s been tied to the docks, and is finally floating off into the sea. And the scene that settles around him, turns the water to stone and eases it all until he’s gasing down through it on two men, middle aged and bickering over a square of land.

They’re smiling. Laughing through barbs that come out shaved down and lacking any edges. There’s a teenager sitting not far off, watching them with a fond smile. A green tile gets tossed across the clearing because it’s deemed useless to the current project, and the laughter only increases, echoes and bounces around the three of them.

It ripples as the laughter fades, and they’re there. Standing side by side, watching their son walk off into his own life, free of quests and misery. Strong. And Brave. Every good bit from each of them, that before any of this, either of them would have declared neither of them capable of, dancing in the air around him, as he disappears through the trees. Quentin slumps into him, hands coming up to clutch onto Eliot’s arms where they weave around his waist and shoulders.

He lets it all play out for Eros. All the good they had, all the beauty and love and life and laughter that built them up through a lifetime. Because this is what they deserve after everything they’ve been through at the hands of Jane Chatwin, and the beast, and gods, and fairies and whatever else the universe has thrown at them that got lost in it all. Between the fear and the grief and the running, this is what they deserved. This is what they were when they let themselves be, and stopped running. This is why it’s worth fighting for, and why he would go through all the hurt to get it back. Why he’d step into his shoes in the past, and take every loss, if it lead to Quentin coming back to him. If he could just say—

The words are still lost in the rippling waves of infinity.

“And all the pain?” Eros asks, once they’re staring at Eliot lifelessly watching Quentin. “What of the pain from that lifetime?”

It all plays, then. Quieter and muted, like it’s forcing itself out from beneath a mountain of love. Like it’s so far gone that it has to reignite itself. And it sets a fire in Eliot’s bones as it does, screaming agony that he can’t even scream at or arch away from. But it’s worth it. Even as the quentin of a time that never happened screams through his tears and calls him selfish and throws tiles, and as the version of himself that Eliot never thought he’d get to be calls him names and slams the door in his face. Even as they break each others hearts between mending them again.

It’s fucking _worth_ it.

The pain is negligible in the face of what it becomes.

And Eros must see that. Because his hand falls from it’s place on Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot blinks to find them sitting in the grey room again, looking at each other.

The words are finally there, desperate at the edges of his mind as if they’ve been waiting for him to let them in.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

His chest heaves, aching breath after aching breath as he tries to settle himself. His skins buzzing like millions of bees are just beneath it, seeking an escape. And his every limb feels like it’s caught ablaze and been put out about a dozen times. But he keeps his eyes locked on Eros, jaw clenched tight, the tendons in his neck stressed and flexing.

Eros watches him with a careful gaze.

“Do you know what purpose I was given?” He asks, eventually, when Eliot’s breathing has calmed, and his hands have stopped twitching in his lap. “What purpose I was meant to serve?”

“You’re the god of love.”

“And _chaos.”_ Eros corrects, leaning in. “For centuries. Millenia, even, I would send love to all I came across. Those who wanted it, and even those that could not have wanted it less. I gave love with reckless abandon. As was my right to do. Even now, I could pull forth my bow, and my arrow, and give you a chance to start anew, and you wouldn’t know better. Because you’re a mortal. You’ll feel the love coursing, and as desperate as you are to give it, you’ll accept it. And you’ll move on.”

Eliot’s breath hitches, and he reaches out to grab onto the handle of his cane, because no. _No_. He didn’t come here to get it taken away.

“Relax,” Eros murmurs, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “Losing my love, and fighting to get her back, woke me from being so simple minded in the face of love.” He laughs, softly, mostly to himself, and sighs. “The arrows can give you all encompassing love with ease. But they don’t give you the pain that comes with with real love. True love.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

His heart pounds frantically in his chest.

“Love is not a gift, Eliot.” He smiles. “And that’s something you’ve realized, through the life you lived and lost. Through the love you so fiercely ran from, until it was too late. It’s not a gift, or a prize.” He leans forward, clasping his hands together. “My mother gave my love a quest. A series of impossible tasks that she had to complete in order for us to find one another.”

Eliot opens his mouth, tendons stretching achingly beneath the motion, to reply, to ask what his quest is. Whatever it is, he’ll do it. He’ll sort millions of seeds in an hour if he has to. Head up into the sun and pluck wool from its surface and return with gold. Fill an unfillable flask. He doesn’t care. Whatever impossible tasks Eros gives him, he’ll do them. That’s why he’s here.

Eros waves a hand. “I know,” He says with soft clarity. “That you would find a way to complete the tasks, just as my Psyche managed. But I am not my mother, and though I have been known to have my moments of careful cruelty, I would never task something so cruel to someone such as yourself.”

“What?”

 _No_. He can’t just send him away.

_If i ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Let me at least _petition_ you—”

“Your Quentin has already crossed over, Eliot.”

His heart stills.

_“No.”_

“My mother treated love like a prize. Like we won one another when we reunited.” Eros continues, ignoring Eliot as he stands up and moves to loom over his own chair, fingers clamping around the back of it. “But, as I’ve already said. Love is not a prize. Nor a gift.” He lets go and leans forward, resting his elbows on the chair, and clasping his hands together in front of him. “Which is why you will not be sent on a quest. Or given four impossible tasks.”

Eliot’s stomach lurches, eyes stinging, and he shakes his head. “Please—” The words die on his tongue, because he doesn’t even know how else to ask. What else he can possibly say.

He can’t have gone through all of this, to get the hope, to relive it all over again, to just be told _no_.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Answer me one question.”

“What?”

“Answer me one question.” Eros repeats, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve answered all your questions. Why the fuck—”

Eros waves a hand, pushing up and moving back around the chair. He leans down and picks up his drink, condensation along the edges of the cup forcing it to slide along the glass top of the table before finally letting Eros lift it up. “Should you be permitted to face him once more, in the place no mortal has ever left, would you let him go if he asked you to?” He watches Eliot carefully. “If love is not enough for him, and he’s ready to leave the mortal plane for eternity. Would you let him go?”

“If . . . if he doesn’t want to come back?” Eros nods. “He wouldn’t.”

“Pretend for a moment, that he would. Would you let him go?”

He wants to be brave enough to say yes. Wants to take everything they’ve been and done and let it give him the strength to say goodbye, but. “No,” He breathes, eyes wide and chin trembling. “I wouldn’t.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d stay with him.”

Eros tilts his head. “You would have yourself trapped in the nothingness for eternity for a love irredeemable?”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“We’re done running from each other.”

“And your friends? The ones that brought you to me. That completed the quest that revealed my location, and gave you this opportunity. What of them, then?”

He pauses. Because they _have_ fought. But they know what they’ve been through, even Alice in her library with her books, and Margo with Josh, and Julia with her new powers and twenty three. All of them know. They stood by and watched him fall apart, and did nothing. They let him drift away until he was nothing more than the parts he was willing to sacrifice.

Unlike him, they didn’t just survive Quentin’s sacrifice, they thrived through it.

“They’ll hurt, but it’ll fade.” He nods to himself. “With time.”

“The woman that brought you to me. That was by your side in near all your memories,” He tilts his head. “Do you think she’d survive?”

“Yes.” Margo loves him. Would fight to the ends of the Earth for him. But she’d survive. She’s the strongest person he’s ever met, and she’s sacrificed to get him back, but he knows she’d survive it. She wouldn’t understand. But she’d survive.

Eros clicks his tongue. “And you don’t think it echoes his story too closely? To sacrifice yourself in a meaningless act?”

“It wouldn’t be meaningless.”

“How so?”

If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you.

“Because I want to live,” Eliot says, soft, because the words almost shock with how true they are. “I _want_ to _live_. And giving that up— it’s like you said. Love isn’t a gift or a prize.” It’s a series of sacrifices. Of choosing to give up everything else if only it means to have a moment of clarity; of happiness.

Eros nods, clamping his hands together behind him, and asking, quickly, “What _is_ love, then?”

“Provided you’re not involved?” Eliot retorts, dryly, and Eros chuckles with another nod, motioning for him to continue, “A _choice_.”

“Elaborate.”

“It’s built up in the same way every other relationship is. But it’s a choice to look at them and see them for who they are. It’s a choice to let them see you. Everything . . . everything that makes it good and worthwhile and beautiful, is made up of choices. Choosing not to run. Choosing to—” He breaks off, realization dawning.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“ — to be _brave.”_ He swallows thickly and looks down at the cane, hands extending on reflex to trace the loop of one of the horns. It’s considerably greasier than when he’d conjured it. Slightly worn from all the restless rubbing of his thumb . “Loving is a choice to be brave every morning. To look them in the eyes and to tell them they have every part of your heart. And— to stop running when they tell you the same. To love someone is to choose to be brave for them.”

Eros tilts his head, before nodding once more and swallowing down the watered down drink in his glass, and setting it back down on the counter. He points at Eliot, a drop of water slipping from his finger and disappearing in the air between him and the ground. “I’m not going to give him back to you,” He says.

“Then why—”

“ _But I will_ give you the opportunity,” Eros continues, voice rising until Eliot clamps his mouth shut, “To let him choose you. You over the piece he’s given himself. To let him choose.” He blinks down at Eliot. “Because that _is_ what love is, and there are _very few_ that understand that.” He looks at Eliot meaningfully, and moving in, he raises that single finger again, “There is one caveat, though. Because I _am_ a god, and as such, I can’t make this easy.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Easy.”

Eros smiles, rolling his eyes playfully. “To any other god, this would be much too easy a task. And I’ve a reputation to uphold, lest I want my brother to be a pest whenever next we see one another.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“What’s the catch?”

“You will travel to the underworld, and take the trek down the hall that never ends. And when you do, eventually,  reach the end, you will knock on the door three times. You may say his name, nothing more.” He leans down and grabs Eliot’s cane. “If he doesn’t open the door, you will give him up.” He holds it out to him, “And I don’t mean give up and let him go. I mean you will give up your memory of him. All the bad, and the good. All the love, and the life you lived together.”

“What?”

Eros shakes the cane until Eliot reaches up with unsteady hands and wraps his hand around the body of it. “Love is not just your choice. It’s his as well. And if you’re allowed to remember what you lost, then you will keep fighting, when he’ll have made a choice.” He kneels down in front of Eliot, and smiles with the kindness Eliot’s spent most of the last few years thinking the gods couldn’t possess. “I saw in your memories, Eliot Waugh, the moment you said you wouldn’t choose him, and that he wouldn’t choose you. It’s time to discover how far your   _proof of concept_ extends.”

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“Do you accept the terms?”

He stares down at the cane, and then nods, once, before looking up at Eros and narrowing his eyes. _“Yes.”_

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

Eros stands up and lets go of the cane, turning on his heel. “Good,” He says, sounding surprisingly pleased. “Meet me at sundown at the place you two first met, and I will take you to the hall that never ends.” He turns back around, “You may take as long as you need. But once you return, you will either have him standing by your side, or you will lose him entirely.”

Eliot sets the foot of the cane on the ground and uses it to push himself up. “I won’t lose him,” He says, straightening out his shoulders, and tilting his chin up. “So. There’s that.”

Eros’ lips twitch and he nods. “There’s that,” He agrees. “Shall I send you to your friends, or send you all back to where it all began?”

He shrugs. “Back to them. I need to tell them. And Twenty three’s a traveler so he can get us there.”

“ . . . A peculiar name, twenty three.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, “His names Penny, but he’s from another timeline. We already had a Penny. It’s this whole stupid thing.”

Eros nods like he doesn’t quite understand, but waves an arm, and just as quickly as it all appeared, the dull room vanishes, and they’re back in the bar, with blaring music and beaming lights. “I will see you soon, Eliot Waugh. Until then.” He reaches out, and places his hand on Eliot’s chest, palm flat against where his heart is. “Breathe.”

The pain slips away as he pulls a hand away, and Eliot heaves in a breath that feels like it’s been kept beneath his ribs for as long as he can remember. He hears his name over the crowd, an angry shriek in the distance, as Eros turns and backs away into the crowd with a knowing smile.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

  
  


“I’ll be damned,” Margo says as day one thirteen settles in on the lucidity and eases around the room. They’re sitting in the cottage. She leans back in her seat, and looks up at him. “He’s seriously going to do this, and all you have to do is get Quentin to open a fucking door? Easiest quest we’ve been on since the beast.”

Beside her, Todd shakes his head. “I don’t know,” He says, setting his drink on the coffee table with a disturbing air of ease that he’s never had when in their presence before. “Do you really want to risk giving everything up? If he doesn’t open the door?”

Alice shoves him. “Shut up,” She says, “He’ll open the door.”

“Will he?” Twenty three asks. “Look, I get the optimism, but playing devils advocate. He was pretty fucked up, and other Penny told me it was what needed to happen. Do you _really_ think he’ll open the door?”

Julia nods from her place, leaning against the bookshelf. “He will,” She says, soft. “There’s not much he’s not willing to do for Eliot.”

And that seems to settle the argument, because the all look down at their drinks silently.

Eliot sips on his water, and stares down at his cane on the coffee table. “Someone help me find something to wear,” He says after a beat. “I need to look my best for when he opens the door.” Margo’s up and holding a hand out for him before he can even set his glass down.

  
  
  


When they step onto the edges of the field, and look up at the stone looming in the distance, Eliot straightens out the bottom of his vest with his free hand, leaning heavily into his cane as it sinks into the grass. The clothes are wrinkled, from where he’d tossed them to the bottom of a trunk, memories of holding Quentin close while wearing them too heavy and daunting to bear looking at them. But after an hour of ‘no’s, Margo had pulled them out, and honestly, there’s nothing else that would have made sense. The purple shirt feels too lively, and the tie too much, but it’s a happy day, and it makes sense to close to the cycle of goodbyes with a hello in the clothes he walked through the first doorway with Quentin in.

“Are you ready?” Margo asks.

He looks over his shoulder. They’re all here, standing together. Even Josh and Fen, and yes, Todd, because he’s been more the shoulder to cry on than Eliot’s ever deserved. He swallows and nods at them. “As ready as I can be, I guess.” He turns around just in time to see Eros appear, leaning against the Brakebills stone. “He’s trying for glamorous,” Eliot notes, tilting his head, “But I do it so much better.”

There’s wet laughter from behind him, and a hand comes out to grab his. “Don’t let him go,” Alice says, soft, squeezing his hand, “Don’t give up on him.”

“I won’t,” He says, with disturbing clarity.

Until this moment, standing here, the lucidity that’s settled over his life has been scary and empty and too much. It’s been nothing more than a counter for how long it’s been, and every aching breath he’s breathed. It’s loomed overhead, ticking like a clock with an echo chamber on his life. But as he takes his first wobbly step across the field, and then the next, it feels like a sheltering warmth over his skin. Feels like another hand, settling in his, as Alice’s slips away.

It’s welcome. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he’s happy to feel so clear headed.

He stops in front of Eros and straightens out his shoulders.

Eros looks him over with a small smile. “Eliot Waugh,” He says, “Welcome.”

“I’m ready.”

Eros shakes his head, eyes narrowed, as he looks down at the cane, “No, I don’t think you are.” He reaches down and taps it, “It won’t be easy walking down the hall that never ends while leaning on this.”

Eliot’s breath hitches and he yanks it out and away from Eros almost by reflex. “I need it.”

“Perhaps.” Eros waves an arm, and all the aching, numb feelings that spread out from his gut and down Eliot’s leg slowly fade into nothingness. “But lets, for now, pretend that you don’t.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to make this too easy.”

Eros shrugs as he gently pries the cane from Eliot’s hand. “I’m a good guy, sue me.” Before Eliot can reply, Eros turns and waves a hand over the stone. A doorway appears between the B and the K, and Eros turns his attention back on him. “Whenever you’re ready, you may go. Remember that you may say nothing more to him than his name. And you may wait as long as you like, but there will be a point when you’ll realize, if he decides not to open the door, that he will not. And that’s when you must return.”

Eliot nods, glancing down at the cane and back up. He heaves in a breath, and looks over his shoulder. They’re all still there, watching him. “Don’t kill them,” He says, quickly turning back around. “While I’m in there. For some kind of sick enjoyment, or something. Please don’t kill them.”

Nodding, and clearly trying to hold back a smile, Eros says, “I promise not to kill your friends, Eliot. Go on. You’ve a long walk ahead of you.”

Eliot looks into the portal, heart hammering in his chest, and takes the first steady step he’s taken in months.

  


 

The hall that never ends is like a dream. It lacks lucidity and ease. Seems a short distance, but for every step he takes, the door at the opposite end seems to only get further away. The first few hours came easy, determination lining every step that echoes around him. He’s breathless and sweaty and he’s not even sure when he loosened his tie or rolled up his sleeves, but he keeps walking through all of it.

His shoes grow uncomfortable, so he stops long enough only to pry them off his feet and to keep walking without them.

With every step the words that have traced his every action and thought since he woke up with a hole in his chest and heart are screaming reminders of why he can’t stop or turn around.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

_If I ever—_

_If I ever—_

_If I ever—_

His steps grow desperate somewhere around hour six, and the pace quickens, until he’s running, heaving in breaths, and with tears streaming down his cheeks.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

He doesn’t realize he’s made progress, either, until a handle appears on the door at the end of the hall. Doesn’t realize the distance starts closing, or even how long he’s been running, until he’s stopping and standing in front of it. A desperate little sob — hopeful and happy and _alive_ — breaks from his lungs alongside the desperate air, and he just stands there for a moment, staring up at it in wonder. He reaches out, grazing his fingers along the sanded wood.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

His hand drops to his side when he realizes he’s trembling, and he stares at the door for a long moment. He waits until his breathing’s settled. Waits until the sweats cooled on his skin. Until the trembling in his legs and arms ceases. Until his heart clamoring achingly in his chest can only be attributed to anticipation rather than from the running.

And then, with all the longing and fear and desperation he’s got in his heart, he reaches up and knocks.

Once.

_If I ever—_

Twice.

_If I ever—_

Three times.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

  
  
  


The door doesn’t open right away.

Eliot’s hand falls to his side, and he watches the door helplessly. His chin trembles, and the tears start flowing again, as he closes the distance between himself and the door, and rests his forehead against it, reaching up with his hand to hold it against the face of the door, palm down. “Q . . .” He says into the wood, breathless and suffering. He wants to say more, to tell him why he should open the door, why he’s here, like he’d done back in Fillory whenever they fought. To tell him he’s sorry.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

There’s a click.

He stumbles backwards, wide eyed, as the handle twists.

And then Quentin’s there, staring at him, just as shocked, eyes wide as saucers. Eliot looks him over, for injury, for fear, for something — he’s not actually sure what he’s looking for. But when he meets Quentin’s gaze his eyes are glistening, filling with tears, as he stands in the doorway. Quentin’s hand falls to his side, as he inhales shakily. “El— Eliot?” His chest heaves, and Eliot only hesitates for a beat — thinking _that’s his voice, that’s his voice_ — before he’s rushing forward and wrapping his arms around him as tight as either of them can bear.

Quentin stumbles, but his arms weave in around Eliot’s clamping down on him with as much desperation. He buries his face in Eliot’s chest, and there’s a sob, and Eliot doesn’t know who it is that’s sobbing, because it might be both of them, but he disappears into Quentin’s hair, one hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck. The only place he’s ever felt he fits perfectly.

They stand in the doorway between the living and the dead, clinging to one another, longer than either of them can quantify, when Quentin pulls away and looks up at him. His eyes are red and puffy, the curve between his nose and lip shiny. He reaches up and cups Eliot’s jaw. “You’re here,” He breathes, all awe and shock.

Eliot nods, still unsure as to whether or not he can speak. Feeling it’s safer not to, he takes a step back, and holds his hand out to him, nodding behind them, to the hallway that’s a thousand miles shorter than it was when Eliot followed it. He tries to convey it all with his eyes — come with me, it’s okay, we’ll be okay, _I choose you, I choose you, I choose you_ —

 _If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you_.

Quentin doesn’t even hesitate when he weaves his fingers in Eliot’s, and then tugs him down the hall.

Eliot’s trembling when he follows after him, squeezing their hands tighter together, just in case Quentin changes his mind.

  
  
  


They step through the portal, and Eros smiles at them like he’s not surprised.

  
  


A chorus of bodies crash into them, wrapping them tight in a hug. There’s laughter coursing through them, ecstatic and confused and, “ — _Todd_?”

 

 

The joy doesn’t fade, but it settles in the air beside the lucidity, as Eliot and Quentin separate themselves from the group, and move to stand side by side in front of Eros. He looks at them knowingly, before settling a hand on each of their shoulders, and nodding. Eliot swallows thickly, and nods. “I — Thank you,” He says, because he’s not sure there are any words that can make sense of what he’s feeling.

Of the coursing lucidity electrifying his every nerve from head to toe and back to the place where his fingers clamp down on Quentin’s. Where Quentin’s holding on just as tight.  

“Be good to each other,” Eros says, soft, “Not many get as many second chances as you two have.”

“No more running,” Eliot agrees, and he hears it— the hitch of Quentin’s breath beside him. He looks at Quentin, “This is Eros,” He explains, reaching up with his free hand to wrap it around the crook of Quentin’s elbow. “Most people know him as Cupid.”

Quentin blinks. “ . . . I got. Brought back to life by . . . cupid?”

Eros shakes his head, his hand sliding from their shoulders. “No, Quentin Coldwater. That particular gift is brought to by True Love.”

A panicked little laugh bounces out of Quentin’s chest. “Oh. It’s just the power of  true love. Cool. Cool. Uh. Good. To know.”

Eliot squeezes his hand. “I’ll explain, I promise.”

Quentin shakes his head, turning to look at him with surprisingly calm eyes, and a little smile edging at the corners of his mouth. He reaches up and cups Eliot’s jaw. “You don’t need to,” He says. “I opened the door, remember?”

Eros claps his hands together, and takes a step back, “Well,” He says, “It appears my work here is done.” He looks at Eliot meaningfully, “I _will_ expect an invite to the wedding. Not many chances for weddings bound by true love the last few hundred years. If I find out there’s been a wedding and I haven’t been invited, I’ll consider it  a great offense, and I may discover I do have it in me to smite.”

“ _Wedding_ —”

“Maybe give me a chance to actually tell him I choose him, before you expect a wedding invite?”

Quentin squeaks, jerking around to look at Eliot. _“What?”_

Eliot just squeezes his hands, forcing down a laugh, “See what you’ve done? You’ve got him all panicked.”

“Excited, more like,” Eros notes, “His hearts beating so fast, I worry you may have to go back and knock again.”

Quentin huffs, and wails mournfully, “Can someone please tell me when Eliot became best friends with the literal G _od of Love._ ”

Eros just laughs and vanishes.

And Eliot turns to look at Quentin. His heart pangs as Quentin turns to meet his gaze, and his hand slides down Quentin’s arm to wrap around their clasped hands. “I’m not — he just.” He scrunches up his face and looks down at the space between them.

_If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._

“When I was locked in my own head,” He says, after a beat, bringing his gaze back up, heart skipping a beat to find Quentin still watching him with wide, hopeful and watery, eyes. He pauses, entranced.

“Just tell him you’re in love with him, jesus christ,” Someone says from somewhere behind them, and Quentin laughs watery and broken and looks away as his face scrunches up with the force of it. There’s a smattering of agree muttering, until he hears something like someone getting slapped. And— “Jesus, okay, I’m sorry, they’re just — Ow! _Fine_! Fuck off, Margo!”

Eliot leans down and presses his forehead against Quentin’s as he looks back up. He brushes his noses against Quentin’s, smiling. “I love you,” He manages after a moment, lost in the watery hope in Quentin’s eyes. “I’m in love with you. I lied when I said I wouldn’t choose you, and I—”

Quentin nods, and the words die on Eliot’s tongue as Quentin closes his eyes and a tear slips over his lashes. Eliot wordlessly reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. “I love you, too,” Quentin says, voice hoarse and full of longing, as he leans into the touch. “ _Jesus_ , Eliot.”

“I know,” Eliot murmurs, “True Love. Who would’ve thought?”

Quentin laughs that same watery laugh, and pushes up on his toes, and the world bursts into a million stars — buzzing and beautiful and _alive_ — around them as Eliot eases in a breath and pulls him into him tighter.

  


 

A hundred and eighteen days after the lucidity settled ominously over Eliot’s life, it eases around the room in laughter and bickering. They’ve moved the coffee table out of the living room, and Eliot’s sitting on the floor in front of the uncomfortable couch with his legs splayed out in front of him, one bent and the other just barely grazing the recliner Alice is sitting on. Quentin’s sitting between his legs, his own crossed, as he leans back against Eliot’s chest, all warmth and comfort and ease. Eliot wraps one arm around Quentin’s waist and leans to the side to roll his eyes at Margo and Todd. But Quentin’s doesn’t even notice, as he waves his hand, fingers still laced through Eliot’s, through the air to make his point to Alice and Julia.

Eliot’s not even sure what he’s talking about, just content and at ease to feel his warmth and to smell the familiar heady cedar scent wafting in all around him. Quentin’s purple shirt is wrinkled, bunched up at his waist beneath Eliot’s arm, and Eliot uses the opportunity to brush his pinky over the warm alive skin beneath it. Quentin shivers, and only slightly loses what he’s saying, before he continues, intent on making his point.

The bottle from behind the microwave sits mostly empty, on the coffee table. And there’s a glass in each of their hands, and on either side of Eliot’s leg, filled with it’s amber liquid.

Lucidity fades as he leans in and presses his chin to the crook of Quentin’s neck, and says, “Q . . .” In a playfully mocking tone. “I don’t think Julia cares that much about this.”

Quentin just rolls his eyes, turns just enough to press a kiss to his temple and says, “No, but she _should._ ”

Eliot laughs and the words come, quick and effortlessly to his mind;

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

And because he’s still got bravery coursing through his veins, he turns his head, presses a kiss to Quentin’s jaw, and whispers them into his ear.

 _I love you, Quentin Coldwater_.

Quentin brings his free hand up, across his chest, and presses it up against the skin on the side of Eliot’s neck. And because there hasn’t been a day of Quentin’s life that he hasn’t been brave and full of love, he says, “I love you, too, but I’m trying to make _a point._ ” He punctuates it with a kiss, and Eliot can’t help the warm puff of happiness and rolls through his veins.

  
  
  


Eliot sends an envelope with a name etched in magic into the air two hundred and forty three days after Eliot lost Quentin, and a hundred and thirty days after he got him back. Beside him, Quentin watches it disappear into the clouds.

“Do you really think he’ll come?”

Eliot shrugs, looking down and smiling at the glint of silver on Quentin’s hand. “Maybe. Maybe not. Better to be safe than sorry.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, “You just want to be able to say that the god of love came to our wedding and blessed us.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He glances back up at him, grinning. “I’m just happy we have this.” He breathes, pressing his temple to Quentin’s and looking out over the grassy field in front of them. The Brakebills stone is just as heavy and unwelcoming beneath them as the first time he lounged against it, but today he can’t make himself care about that. “And that you agreed to an extravagant wedding.”

Quentin laughs. “I don’t think I had much of a choice.”

“No,” Eliot coos, “You really didn’t. But I let you think you did.”

“And that’s what matters.”

“Exactly.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh. “You’re a dumbass.”

“But you love me.”

There’s only a small pause, but he’s content enough to not try and read anything in it, and then, “Yeah. I really do.” It’s soft, and genuine, and everything Eliot used to believe he couldn’t have.

Eliot closes his eyes and breathes the moment in.

The words come blinking into his mind, like they’ve been waiting to be remembered.

 _If I ever get out of here, Q, know that when I’m braver it’s because of you._  

He let’s them settle around them for a moment.

And then he lets them go.

 


End file.
